


All the luck in the world

by Calamitous_Magpie



Series: Strange Fortunes [1]
Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Crushes, First Meetings, Laurence is pretty and Napoleon is Struggling, Light Angst, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sort Of, spoilers for Empire of Ivory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24157471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calamitous_Magpie/pseuds/Calamitous_Magpie
Summary: “A glory hound, perhaps,” muses Napoleon; maybe the man is not unlike himself.“De Guignes did not seem to think so,” replies Murat. “The captain saved his nephew, I think; and by all accounts he is not a braggart.”“That does not make him an honest man.” Though neither of them know what it does make him. “I should like to know more about him; he seems quite the interesting character, this Laurence.”Or: William Laurence is not what Napoleon expects him to be.
Relationships: Napoleon Bonaparte/William Laurence
Series: Strange Fortunes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932226
Comments: 35
Kudos: 214





	All the luck in the world

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to tag, ha. A lot of dialogue in the middle is lifted directly from the scene near the end of Empire of Ivory and I don't own it, nor did I create it (though I have modified bits of it). Also, I should mention that this is inspired in part by WerewolvesAreReal! Their fics dragged me into this rarepair hell. I recommend all of them. Enjoy!

When the sickness first appears, no one thinks anything of it. Then, as the reports of dragons falling ill pile up on his desk, Napoleon realizes the courier may not have escaped by chance. The infected grow weaker quickly, and it is a fight to keep the news from getting out; it is a wonder the English managed it for so long. Napoleon feels strangely trapped by the situation, and some part of him wonders if this will be his downfall.

And then the Englishman arrives, having raced straight across the Channel with a box full of foul-smelling mushrooms he claims to be the cure. The reports are oddly vague; Napoleon gathers that there is likely confusion among the officers as to the true intent of the rogue captain. Nonetheless, the box is sent to Paris and tested.

When it works, Napoleon damn near passes out in relief.

“What is his name? The Englishman, I mean.” The question is directed to Murat a few hours after the cure is deemed successful.

“William Laurence, if you’ll credit it,” he replies. Napoleon does his best to contain his shock and fails utterly.

“Surely not the same man -”

“The one and only, I’m afraid. Brought that big black beast with him, too.”

Because of course the man he should hate most in England, and who logically would despise him in turn, is now his savior. Except…

“Murat, was he not present at Jena? And then the garrison, the one whose whole force escaped over the Channel in the middle of the night?”

“You would remember better than I, sir,” he replies. It takes a few minutes to find the folder among the shelves in Napoleon’s study, but it is large enough to stand out among the others. Inside is a collection of reports on Temeraire from over the years; naturally Laurence is in these reports as well. Near the top is a report from Jena, confirming exactly what Napoleon had thought. After rifling through further, the folder proves to be a font of information about the pair’s exploits. Both men are amazed to find the sheer number of times Temeraire alone has radically changed French positions, from the egg theft in Istanbul to the sinking of the _Valérie_ all the way back to the Battle of Dover; and these do not even begin to cover their altered relations with the east.

It is late into the night when he and Murat finally reach the bottom of the stack, leaving papers strewn across the desk.

“A glory hound, perhaps,” muses Napoleon; maybe the man is not unlike himself.

“De Guignes did not seem to think so,” replies Murat. “The captain saved his nephew, I think; and by all accounts he is not a braggart.”

“That does not make him an honest man.” Though neither of them know what it does make him. “I should like to know more about him; he seems quite the interesting character, this Laurence.”

And that is how he ends up reading old intelligence and battle reports in the middle of the night with Murat and Lannes. It is three days after the cure’s delivery. Three days since he discovered the most truly ridiculous career in military history.

“How,” says Lannes incredulously. “Can you be presumed dead _twice_?”

“If anyone could be, it would be Laurence, apparently; I cannot decide if he has the best luck in the world or the worst,” Napoleon replies.

This, as well as numerous other dangers, have befallen Laurence over his lifetime; as the reports are French, it is difficult to gauge the details of his life, but he certainly has been shipwrecked at least three times, captured twice, and promoted to captain at the tender age of twenty five. From there the action had not ceased as he brought in prize after prize until eventually he captured the _Amitié_ and Temeraire with her, and from there the rest was history.

All in all, an impressive repertoire. Napoleon has always planned to meet him at some point, but now he truly must see the man face to face. Perhaps, he thinks, he will be rough and calloused, or maybe vainglorious and self-righteous; or perhaps he is just dumb and lucky in heaps. Whatever the case, Napoleon prepares to take an instant dislike to the man.

The second he enters Lien’s pavilion the next day he knows he is wrong. William Laurence is, firstly, beautiful. He stands with his shoulders squared and back straight, like a perfect officer, his neat hair long bleached by the sun. He tenses when Napoleon clasps his arms and kisses his cheeks, the cords of his muscles noticeable even through the fabric of his coat. Secondly, he is charming to speak to, freely allowing the emperor to ramble as he pleases and agreeing to much of it, though he seems reluctant to do so; no doubt agreeing with a man he had long been sworn to defeat is unsettling, to say the least. When finally he ceases, knowing he has appealed to the man’s morals surrounding the resistance to dragons in the west, Laurence speaks.

“Your Majesty, I am a soldier, not a statesman; and I have no great philosophy but that I love my country. I came because it was my duty as a Christian and a man; now it is my duty to return.”

The words are said simply, but they carry the weight of a man who knows the great ripples his actions have caused - and that he must pay the ultimate price for them. Napoleon frowns involuntarily but quickly smothers any annoyance, for it is clear the words are not spoken in jest. He approaches him again, resting his hand on the Englishman’s arm. “You mistake your duty. You would throw away your life: all right, you might say, but it is not yours alone. You have a young dragon, who has devoted himself to your interest, and who has given you all his love and confidence. What can a man not accomplish, with such a friend, such a councilor, free from any trace of envy or self-interest? It has made you who you are -” He is presuming some of what he says, but even from his much briefer time with Lien he knows it to be true. “Think where would you now be, without the stroke of fortune that put his heart into your keeping?”

A strange look comes over Laurence’s face; not pained, exactly, but somewhere between sorrowful and dreamily introspective. Napoleon takes a moment to memorize the features of his face like this, and some part of him protests mightily to the subtle manipulation; it seems wrong to use it on the man who has just saved his country. When he continues, his voice is softer. “You do not suffer from the disease of ambition - so much the better. Let me give you an honorable retirement. I won’t insult you by offering you a fortune, only his keep and yours. A house in the country, a cattle-herd. Nothing will be asked of you that you do not want to give.” To his own surprise, he finds himself meaning it: he finds himself disdainful of the idea of persuading such a man back into service against his own people. His hand tightens on Laurence’s arm. “Will you let your conscience be clear when you have delivered him into a captivity? Into a long captivity - they will not tell him when they put you to death.” He continues down this path of thought a minute more, and for all that he is sure of him persuasive skills he is even more certain of this: it will not change his mind. At last, he is proven right.

“Sir,” Laurence says, valiantly trying to hide the tremble in his voice. “I wish you may persuade him to stay - I must go back.”

He turns back towards the pavilion, towards Temeraire, and part of the weight seems to momentarily lift from his shoulders. Napoleon releases his arm, knowing that holding him back is futile; a man with nothing to lose is not stopped by anything. Almost unconsciously he starts pacing, thinking and scheming of other ways he can keep Laurence here, by his side, and finds that he comes up empty.

“God forbid I should alter such a resolve,” he says at last. “Your choice is the choice of Regulus, and I honor you for it. You will have you liberty - you must have your liberty - and more: a troop of my Old Guard will escort you to Calais; Accendare’s formation shall see you across the Channel, under a flag of truce: and all the world will know that France at least can recognize a man of honor.” The words pain him more than they should.

Laurence turns back towards him from the pavilion for only a moment and Napoleon sees a thousand emotions on his face: gratefulness, desperation, deep and crushing desolation. Regret is not among them.

In the later hours of the day, when the sky is washed out and faded and the sun has just set, he meets Temeraire again in the pavilion. Lien is gone, having left for Malmaison earlier, leaving the pair of them alone.

“Oh, hello,” says Temeraire, peering down at him with a little suspicion. That is one thing Napoleon appreciates about dragons: they have fairly little sense of decorum. He certainly has never had any use for it. “What do you want?”

“I am not here to tell you what I want, only what your captain desires, and that is that you remain in Paris.”

Temeraire snorts. “I will not stay. It is not that Paris is not lovely - indeed, I think it is far more splendid than London, though do not tell Laurence that I have said that -” Napoleon does not bother to conceal a smile. “ - but I must return with him. It was my idea to bring the cure, after all.”

“It is reassuring to hear a creature like yourself approve of my designs; they are made with your kind in mind, after all. Temeraire, you love Laurence very much, do you not?”

“That is a very silly question; of course I do.”

“I think you are a very intelligent creature, so consider this: if you stay in Paris, your captain may survive.” It is instantly obvious that he has hit upon a nerve, for the dragon’s head swivels around so suddenly that he nearly knocks Napoleon over.

“How do you mean? Laurence will never stay here, he insists upon going back - even if I were to stay, he would not -”

“No, he will not stay - nothing will stop him from returning.” Temeraire’s ruff droops at this, but Napoleon continues nonetheless. “If you stay, you give him the opportunity to save himself from the gallows; with you here, he may lie and say that you took him without his consent.”

“I would never do such a thing!” Temeraire protests, ruff flaring back up.

“Of course; but your government does not know that.”

Temeraire is silent for a moment, processing what he has said. Napoleon watches him, thinks of the storm of emotion he saw on Laurence’s face, and finds that he knows the idea will never work. He does not know Laurence well by any means, but he knows he is an honest man. He will not lie, not even to save his own neck; but perhaps there is just the slimmest chance that Temeraire will convince him, as he convinced him to commit treason against his own beloved country.

“I do not think he will lie, not even to save his life,” says Temeraire, his tone anxious and mournful even as he voices Napoleon’s own thoughts. “I will ask him, but I will go with him if he says no.” He raises his head to look over the Thames and the wide road being built across it, and his tail thrashes about. “Oh, if only he would stay here, and let the government rot! It is not fair, not at all.”

“Few things are, I find,” Napoleon replies. The words are bitter; to see a life like Laurence’s wasted for nothing but the cruel miscalculation of a greedy government pains Napoleon more than it should. By all accounts he is but a soldier who has committed treason, a thing which tends to lower men in his eyes by a great deal; but try as he might, he cannot shake the uncomfortable feeling that, for some reason, he desperately does not want Laurence to die.

In the precious few days before he must hand Laurence back to England, he summons him again. He must speak to him once more before his is gone - likely forever.

“Will you walk with me, Laurence?” he asks, taking a moment to admire how handsome he is in the French coat. “I wish to speak with you.”

“Of course, sir,” he replies. “Though I confess I do not know why you would seek my company over others’.”

To this, Napoleon can only smile and say, “Many reasons.”

The walk side-by-side in the gardens of Versailles. Even in the later autumn they are beautiful, the flowers blooming late among the fallen leaves. Laurence is silent, his gaze turned forward; it is clear that he is trying to walk the fine line of treating Napoleon with respect but not as a superior officer.

“Is there nothing I can do to convince you to stay?” he asks. “I would not see a man such as yourself wasted for the mistake of his country.”

“It was only my duty, sir, and now it is my duty to return and receive judgement.”

“But it is not! You could just as easily have stayed on the other side of the Channel and done nothing - and now, given the offer of asylum, even glory, you refuse it. I have never met a man half so virtuous. Honest men are not easy to find - some would say they do not truly exist. I cannot believe that, not while you stand before me.”

Laurence flushes, a distressingly charming look on him, and makes to object. Napoleon doesn’t give him the opportunity, seizing his shoulders before he can dismiss this praise like the rest. “Do not deny my words; they are true and you know it.”

Laurence tenses as his hands shift - one to the base of his neck, the other catching his hand. Napoleon is pushing it, and internally he is praying that he hasn’t gone too far. “I implore you, captain, to stay. I will not insult you with bribes, nor dishonor you by holding you against your will. I offer only asylum and peace, for I cannot bear the thought of what England will do to you.”

Laurence regards his quietly for a moment, then says, “I am afraid my answer remains the same, sir.”

Napoleon knows this answer is coming. It burns all the same. Some of his frustration must slip through, because Laurence runs his thumb over his knuckles where their hands are still entwined. Napoleon’s heart involuntarily flutters and he feels his breath catch in his throat.

“It is the only thing that can be called honorable, sir. I am sorry to see it cause pain - and I do not wish to imagine what Temeraire will go through - but it must be done.”

Somehow, he isn’t lying - not even to himself. He truly believes this to be the only recourse. It is evident, in each movement he makes, in the weight of his words: he knows he is going to die. Napoleon pulls away, feeling suddenly cold. The story of Regulus had always interested him, as in theory such honor is ideal. Now he sees it is not so; it is a current, a river that pulls men forward - and down.

“Were you really shipwrecked three times?” The words are out of his mouth before he thinks them through, or really thinks about them at all. Laurence blinks, caught off guard by the ques

“Er - well, yes, unless you count the Indies - it was not so bad, I came out in one piece -” he scrambles to add, seeing Napoleon’s eyebrows shoot up past his hairline. “However did you know?”

Evidently the reports do not cover all of the incidents. “I did some...research before you arrived. Your name comes up in a surprising number of reports, and I would be most intrigued to hear you tell the stories instead.”

Laurence obliges, at first a little stiffly; he sidesteps talking about some more delicate information that could be considered dangerous to give an enemy, but falls into a rhythm soon enough, with Napoleon prompting him at different points. The Indies was apparently another such fiasco, though Laurence is loathe to speak ill of what sounds to be an incredibly incompetent officer - apparently he ran them aground trying to reach their destination faster knowing damn well they were in danger of striking a reef. Throughout the conversation Napoleon internally marvels at the sheer number of events; it seems as thought the captain has always attracted strange luck.

After a walk that goes on for several hours longer than either expect it to, they arrive at the pavilion Temeraire is staying in, who only adds to the stories. Laurence attempts to downplay his role in many things, something Napoleon had suspected earlier. Temeraire, though, is not shy of embellishment. Charmingly, the captain seems almost embarrassed to have his praises sung, a flush creeping up his neck. Or perhaps he is not proud of being at the center of so many events; either way it is delightful to watch.

“Paris is very beautiful; Laurence, do you ever think London will look like this?”

Temeraire looks back down to the both of them in time to see Laurence smother a pained expression. Napoleon says nothing; to speak of invading England would be… insensitive, to say the least.

“Perhaps one day, my dear; it is the type of work that ordinarily takes many years and wills to accomplish. I am amazed it has progressed as far as it has here,” he said, shooting a sideways glance at Napoleon. Whether it was to check for any sign of offense or prompt an explanation, he could not say. He decides to interpret it as the latter.

“The use of dragons has expedited the process considerably; they can carry the raw materials farther and faster than men and many, unsurprisingly, find demolition quite to their tastes.”

Laurence tries and fails to stifle a small smile, his eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners. It is a far cry from his usually guarded expression, and it takes no further prompting than that for the thought of kissing him to spring to the front of Napoleon’s mind. He immediately tries to shove the thought away, but it will not be silenced - some traitorous part of him thinks it would be quite pleasant indeed. It is all he can do to keep up with the conversation.

It is rare for Napoleon to be asleep before midnight, and this night is no exception. His study is dark save for a few candles, and in the dim light he cannot think of anything but Laurence. He nearly throws up his hands in frustration - why in God’s name can he not focus on anything else? Yes, Laurence is an attractive man, a fact which anyone with eyes can see; and yes, his actions are honorable beyond belief, but does it really warrant this level of preoccupation? What is he, a lovestruck maiden whose heart skips every time her love smiles -

Oh.

_Oh._

It _would_ be his luck to fall in love with a man about to die, wouldn’t it.

When Laurence leaves the day after, he meets him one last time to bid him farewell. The sun shines brightly, almost mocking the dark fate the captain will face. Laurence is already on Temeraire’s back; evidently the two will return to their nation together, leaving no room to deny Laurence’s complicity.

“I pray,” he calls. “That your generals see sense. Goodbye, Laurence.”

Laurence faces him from his perch between Temeraire’s shoulders, his expression on of determination. “Goodbye, Bonaparte.”

The wind from the dragon’s wings whips him bitterly in the face as they depart. He watches them ascend and glide out over the city, rapidly dwindling away to blurs on color on the horizon.

If only, he thinks, not for the first time, I could show you your true worth. Then perhaps you might stay.

It is that same night that he finishes his plans to invade England.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If anyone was interested in me possibly making this a series/giving this a sequel (maybe set in Crucible of Gold) let me know in the comments!


End file.
